The world was still reeling a little. Maybe it was the fever, or the pain, or that vile mix of adrenaline and anxiety that was pooling in his veins like poison. He'd been sitting on the unmade bed for an hour, or maybe two, unable to distinguish the rain outside from the dull buzzing in his temple. The pain in his hand was sharp, throbbing, but at least it proved he was still capable of doing what needed to be done.

A finger. He'd sacrificed a finger to retrieve an address. A piece of evidence. He didn't even know if it would lead to Shawn. But he'd done it. For himself. For his son. Because if he didn't, who would? No one. The fluorescent light above the door flickered dimly. He'd chosen this seedy motel for its privacy. No one would come looking for him there, not the press, not the cops. He could hide there, at least for a few hours, between two impossible decisions. He slept little. He ate even less. He sweated in fits and starts, shivered without a fever. He was slowly decomposing.

And then... she had arrived. Three discreet knocks at the door. Neither aggressive nor timid. Just precise. He had stood up with difficulty, his left hand clutched at his chest. He wasn't expecting anyone. Not at this hour, not here. A journalist, perhaps? Another cop in disguise? He had glanced through the peephole before opening it slightly. And had seen her. A woman. Dark raincoat, badge clipped to her belt. Hands visible. Erect posture. Silent. She hadn't tried to enter. She hadn't presented herself with the authority of others. She had simply stared at him.

Something inside him had stiffened. He had hesitated. Then he opened the door wide. Let her come in. Let her be done with it. He no longer had the strength to defend himself, nor the desire. She had followed him inside without a word. Her gaze had slid over the room, the mess, the blood, an open bottle of water on the table, the remains of the bandage soaked with sweat, but she hadn't said anything. Not a comment. Not a frown. Nothing. Perhaps that was the most disturbing thing. Ethan had backed up to the bed, then sat down again, slowly, facing her. He wanted to tell her to leave. That he had nothing to hide, but nothing to offer either. But the words had caught in his throat.

"You're here to watch me, aren't you?" She hadn't answered. But she hadn't denied it. She had simply stood there, straight, like a shadow cast in her misery.

"Are they sending you to see if I'm crazy?"

Still that silence. He didn't know if it was professional or personal. But he felt that gaze on him like a scalpel. Precise. Patient. He had sighed, leaning forward slightly, holding his aching wrist.

"I'm not dangerous. Just... exhausted."

He didn't know why he had said that. Maybe because it was true. Maybe because he needed at least one person to hear him, even if they didn't understand. She hadn't moved. Hadn't interrupted him. He thought he saw a flutter in her eyes, like hesitation. A crack in the facade. But it had only lasted a second. Ethan had looked away. The neon sign had flickered once more, casting broken shadows on the yellow wall. He didn't know if she would speak. If she would fire off questions. If she would pull out her notebook. But she hadn't. Not yet. And in that strange calm, that face-to-face encounter between two people who had nothing in common, Ethan had felt... watched. Not like a criminal. Not like a sick person. Like a man sinking.